


and they say romance is dead

by perfchan



Series: fly fast, kiss sweet, break fashion rules intergalactically [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blow Jobs, Happy Sex, Humor, Lance (Voltron) is a Dork, M/M, POV Keith (Voltron), lance is in short shorts and keith is a leg man, semi public blow job, that's the plot, these boys are so lame, you definitely don't have to read the previous two fics of the series to read this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 19:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15347106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: “Ah, now that’s---” Lance starts, but never gets the chance to complete.Keith kisses him without finesse. He has his hands on Lance’s hips, holding him still as he chases the taste of that smirk he loves. Lance’s mouth---made for lazy grins and toothy retorts---seems to have adapted perfectly to whatever this---their current relationship---is.*The team stops at a gas station en route back to Earth. Keith and Lance find a moment alone.





	and they say romance is dead

**Author's Note:**

> if you read the previous fic, this one is a little less fluff, just an fyi. The main objectives we’re trying to achieve here are 1) their clothes are getting progressively worse and 2) keith is blowing lance in the absolute sleaziest location. Any plot/overall cute feelings are purely incidental. That being said, here is:

***

 

Keith can just barely make-out the top of Hunk’s head over the aisles of gas station snacks, but he appears to have broken the slurpie machines. The four plexiglass chambers on the wall don’t seem to be spinning anymore. Hunk is tinkering. There’s a worrisome grinding noise, audible even over the tinny gas station music. That’s probably bad. 

 

Or maybe not. Pidge is shouting, but it seems to be more of a ‘triumphant glee’ kind of shout, rather than one of anger or fear. Maybe they didn’t break the slurpie machines? Maybe they’ve modified them...created some unholy amalgamation of frozen---

 

“Excuse me, was I boring you?” 

 

Keith turns back to Lance. His mouth is doing that  _ thing _ \---almost a scowl, but also like he’s just a second away from laughing at a joke that only he gets. One of his eyebrows is arched over a pair of sunglasses. The lens are bubblegum pink, and circular. 

 

“Yeah, kinda.” Keith replies, only because he likes it when Lance throws up his arms in a dramatic huff. 

 

He does so now, the pricetag from the sunglasses flopping on his nose. “The things I put up with!” 

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Keith says, completely unapologetic. “What was the question again?” 

 

“I said,” Lance continues, posing with his index finger and thumb in a V over his chin, “are these the  _ ones _ ?” 

 

Keith blinks, shifting against the magazine rack on which he’s been leaning for the past half-varga while Lance tries on endless pairs of shades. The current pair are pink, meaning they clash horribly with the bright, saturated colors of the Hawaiian shirt Lance is wearing. It has a pattern that could generously be described as ‘tropical’ but really just looks a little bit insane, with leaves and weird alien birds and flowers in colors so intense they make Keith’s eyes cross if he looks too hard. 

 

“I don’t think they match?” He tries, diplomatically. 

 

Lance hums, taking off the sunglasses. He considers this, tapping the sunglasses against his mouth in thought, one hip popped out. Which. Calls attention to his legs. 

 

The shorts he’s wearing are….Keith wets his lips, teeth scraping over the top one. Not fair. 

 

Lance tries on a pair with cat-eyed lenses, frowns into the tiny mirror by the display stand, then takes them off and puts them back. 

 

He has the billowy Hawaiian shirt tucked in the front, but his shorts are  _ so  _ short that the tail of the shirt actually dips  _ below _ them in the back. They’re cut offs and the denim is purposefully distressed, allowing Lance’s warm skin tone to be visible through the messy threads by the front pockets, as if Keith needed any more incentive to imagine what’s underneath. 

 

Lance stretches, pulling a pair of sunglasses down from the very top of the display. Keith can see the muscle tense in the back of his thigh, his calf flexing as he reaches upwards on his tippy toes, all long lines and smooth skin. 

 

Keith stands. Crosses and then uncrosses his arms. 

 

“What about these?” Lance asks, sliding on a pair of mirrored aviators, completely unaware that Keith is neck deep in a fantasy where those long legs are wrapped around his waist. He’d make Lance  _ keen _ : one of his heels would dig into Keith’s back, the other leg would drag down Keith’s body, squirming for purchase----

 

“Hello~oo,” Lance sing songs, snapping his fingers in front of Keith’s nose, “Anybody home?”  

 

Keith catches Lance’s hand, and holds it to the side so that he can get a better look. He squints. His own face squints back at him. “Not the mirrored ones. I can’t see your eyes,”

 

Keith drops Lance’s hand to lift the glasses off his face, being careful not to pull his hair on accident. Lance’s eyes are wide as they come back into view. “Better,” Keith says, folding the glasses before handing them back.  

 

For some reason, Lance fumbles them. The flimsy things don’t break, but they skid across the dingy floor tiles with an impressive clatter. “--ly crow, Keith,” Lance mutters under his breath, turning to bend and pick up the glasses, red around the tips of his ears.

 

And that’s the moment Keith reaches his limit. 

 

As Lance bends over, Keith catches a glimpse of the curve of his ass, actual cheek spilling out of those ridiculously short-shorts. 

 

Lance says something else but Keith doesn’t quite catch it---he’s too busy choking.

 

When Lance is upright, Keith divests him of the sunglasses, placing them back on the rack with purpose. He turns back to Lance, catching one of his arms behind the elbow, pulling him closer. “Can you decide later?” he asks.

 

“I mean, I could,” Lance titters, hands moving up Keith’s sides. His expression turns into one of mock-innocence, “Is there something else I need to be doing...”

 

He trails off as Keith kisses the edge of his mouth, right where it always curls up when Lance is about to say something he thinks is witty. (It rarely is as funny as Lance thinks it is, but that smirk…the smirk makes listening to Lance’s lines _ so _ worth it). 

 

“Ah, now  _ that’s _ \---” Lance starts, but never gets the chance to complete. 

 

Keith kisses him without finesse. He has his hands on Lance’s hips, holding him still as he chases the taste of that smirk he loves. Lance’s mouth---made for lazy grins and toothy retorts---seems to have adapted perfectly to whatever this---their current relationship---is. Not for the first time, Keith is grateful for Lance’s unwavering eagerness to follow his lead. 

 

Lance shifts as the kiss becomes more heated, open mouthed. His hand is heavy on the back of Keith’s neck. Keith is caught in the sensation of Lance’s mouth on his, the feel of the roof of Lance’s mouth on his tongue, the headiness of swallowing every groan that escapes Lance’s throat.  

 

They stumble backwards, just a step, but it’s enough that Lance’s knee ends up between Keith’s legs. Keith uses the movement to slot their bodies together, matching the pace of their mouths. The denim of Lance’s shorts is rough under Keith’s hands. He slides one hand forward, tucking it into the back pocket of Lance’s jeans. When Lance bites gently at his bottom lip, Keith  _ squeezes _ in reply.  

 

The little hiccup of noise that Lance makes in response ignites something in Keith that burns fast and dangerous---the flush runs up his neck, heat prickling over his skin, greed and recklessness settling deep in his gut. 

 

“Ke-eith,” Lance tries, breath splitting the name in two. He pulls back, just slightly. From this distance, Keith can see the delicate vasculature that criss-crosses his eyelids as they flutter shut and open again. Lance collects himself and hisses close to Keith’s mouth. “We. Are. In. Public. Broad fricken’ daylight,” he looks over his shoulder, suspicious. “Where everybody and their grandma can---”

Keith doesn’t know anything about people or their grandmas, but if their location is the only issue, he did notice a sign indicating a restroom in the far corner. He tilts his head meaningfully in that direction, raising his eyebrows in question. Lance gets noticeably more red in the face, but nods. He blinks, seeming to resolve some unmentioned internal conflict and then nods again, two more times, each one more forceful than the last. 

 

Keith takes that as his cue and starts toward the bathroom, past powdered donuts and zero-G-compatible windshield wiper fluid, ducking into the hallway just after a wall of cheesy magnets that say things like “Greetings From Gromflom Prime” and “Gromflom is for lovers.”  

 

Lance is close on his heels as he slips into the cramped bathroom. Keith doesn’t pay much attention to the ring of rust in the bowl of the toilet, or the yellow-y bulb overhead that seems to be serving more as final resting place for dead insects rather than a source of light. He doesn’t notice the grimyness of the linoleum or the filthy sink or foggy mirror. He’s much more concerned with the way Lance slides the lock closed on the door. It catches with a satisfying click, and after giving the door an obligatory jiggle, Lance turns to him, all wolfish smile. 

 

“Now then, where were we?” Lance simpers. It’s overdone and predictable and Keith definitely should  _ not  _ find it attractive, but then again…this is Lance. So he’s biased. 

 

“I think it was something like this,” Keith plays along, hooking his fingers in Lance’s belt loops and tugging him closer. 

 

“Maybe like this?” Lance guesses, pressing his mouth to Keith’s, his smile too wide for it to be a proper kiss. The smile melts as Keith starts working at his mouth again, sucking at his upper lip, humming gently as Lance takes the lead. 

 

Lance kisses him soft and sweet and tender. He has arms slung over Keith’s shoulders, fingertips languidly playing in the uneven ends of Keith’s ponytail. 

 

And, it feels nice, but. ‘Soft and sweet and tender’ is not where they were. Keith slides both of his hands into Lance’s back pockets as a reminder. This time, instead of protesting, Lance nips at his lip in expectation. This time, when Keith squeezes, Lance rocks his hips, grinding against Keith. And it feel so good, so right---and so, _ so _ overdue--- that Keith can’t help but breathe too sharply, a quick intake of air against Lance’s lips. 

 

Which are now smirking. 

 

Because, of course, Lance can’t just let him live. 

 

“Our resident hothead is extra handsy today,” he comments, gleeful. 

 

Keith doesn’t grace him with a reply. His mouth is working along Lance’s jaw, kissing open mouthed down his neck, just under his ear. Lance’s hands are now trailing up and down his sides, the smooth pads of his fingers tracing over his ribs, down to his hips and back up. It’s driving Keith crazy, making it difficult to think. The friction is good, but he needs more. Keith walks them forward, difficult in such a small space, but an attempt to pull Lance even closer all the same. 

 

“Non, non,” Lance chides in a chintzy accent, because he never stops blabbing, “You gotta enlighten me, man. What is up? Just finally succumbing to my wiles? Understandable, honestly. The Lance--” 

 

“It’s these!” Keith says, finally giving up and breaking apart from him. He heaves out a breath and throws his hands in the general direction of Lance’s clothes, completely at a loss for how to explain. If he even should explain. 

 

“My outfit?” Lance says, with a roll of his eyes. “Dude. Weird. But it that’s what does it for ya, guess I’ll start stocking up on floral prints,” he muses, the slant of his mouth a little lopsided. 

 

“Not the stupid shirt!” Keith grits out, 

 

“Okay, first of all: not stupid.” One of Lance’s slim, elegant fingers wags in between them. A second joins it. “Second of all, like you have any room to talk.” 

 

Lance plucks at the front of Keith’s muscle tee, just over where it reads, ‘she thinks my tractor’s sexy,’ and makes a face. 

 

(This system has two suns, okay? It’s hot! And the fueling depot where Keith bought the shirt didn’t have many with material this light, and the sides this open! It’s functional! Plus tractors are pretty cool!)  

 

Keith is going to make these excellent counterpoints and more when he remembers that he can argue with Lance anywhere. And they’re holed up in this shitty bathroom for a very  _ specific  _ reason. Which he would like to resume  _ very much _ .  

 

Keith brow furrows. “No. I meant. Your shorts.” He exhales, bracing himself for what’s to come. “They’re really short.” 

 

A switch flips in Lance’s brain, it’s painfully obvious. A grin spreads across his face, slow and sticky-smug. “You like that?”

 

There was a time where he would have denied it, but now Keith’s eyes flick down to his thighs, just for a second. He nods. 

 

“You like that.” Lance confirms, taking a step forward. Back into Keith’s space. 

 

“I’m gonna suck you off.” Keith says it the minute it comes into his mind that he can, actually, yeah, do that. Because he wants to---fuck does he want to---and he and Lance have this thing now, where he knows that Lance is into him and he’s into Lance and. It’s good. 

 

Lance makes an indeterminate noise---he might be in shock. At any rate, he’s stopped talking. 

 

Satisfied, Keith returns to working at his neck, kissing over his pulse. He feels Lance swallow, tremulous. Lance’s hands are on his hips. Keith swipes his tongue over Lance’s collarbone after his teeth catch it, and Lance’s thumbs press just a little bit harder into his skin. He swallows again, his labored breaths apparent under Keith’s mouth. 

 

Only a couple buttons of Lance’s shirt are buttoned; Keith undoes these, kissing against Lance’s sternum. He makes clumsy work of untucking Lance’s shirt, pulling it to hang at his sides. He brushes over his nipples, and Lance’s whole body shudders against the door of the bathroom. 

 

Keith pauses for a moment, resting his forehead on Lance’s shoulder. He watches the rise and fall of his bare chest, parts of it faintly glistening from his mouth. “You’re hard,” he comments. 

 

Lance snorts, but he sounds breathless, the way it comes out. “Gee, I wonder why.” 

 

Untwisting the hair tie from his hair, Keith mechanically regathers his hair into a tighter, higher ponytail, so that his bangs aren’t falling in his eyes as much. “So I can see you,” Keith explains shortly. “Wanna see your face---during.” 

 

Again, the noise Lance makes in response is strangled. “Keith,” he finally gets out, “I’m not---I’m---M’probably not gonna last long.” 

 

“It’s okay,” Keith says, sinking to his knees. He kisses into the wispy hair that trails down his long, toned stomach, before finally unbuttoning the criminally short shorts. One of Lance’s hands flies to his mouth. He sucks in a breath against his knuckles, maybe bites them as Keith tugs the shorts down his thighs. 

 

It really is okay. Keith pushes the waistband of his own shorts down; he’s just as hard. As he noses into the lean muscle of Lance’s inner thigh, Lance’s cock, wet with precum, slides across his face. Keith strokes himself----just a couple times, indulging as he mouths along Lance’s sensitive skin, breathing in deep. His other hand trails down the length of Lance’s leg.

 

“Ke--,” Lance’s voice already sounds broken, cracking into a whine. He tries again. “Keith--”

 

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK 

 

Keith pulls back. 

 

The door Lance is pressed against rattles as someone aggressively raps against it, demanding to be let in. The voice that accompanies the knocking is loud and crass and alien. And seems persistent. Lance looks down at Keith, wide eyed. Keith shrugs. 

 

“Hang on, I got this,” Lance whispers, leaning down closer to Keith, expression becoming mischievous. He tucks a stray hair behind Keith’s ear, before straightening up and hollering:  “Oh buddy, you are NOT gonna wanna come in here when I’m done, lemme tell you!!!!! The bean burritos on Cronenberg are  _ not  _ a joke. If I were you, I would steeeer clear.” 

 

Their visitor might not be convinced from just that, so Lance adds in a few groans and grunts, getting more theatrical and louder with each one. He cups his hands and finishes the whole spectacle off by blowing a giant raspberry into his palms. 

 

The alien backs away from the door, presumably disgusted and/or disturbed. Lance looks incredibly pleased with himself.  

 

There, crouched on the floor of the grossest bathroom this side of Glibglo, the hardest he’s been in probably ever, just seconds away from blowing the guy he’s been quietly crushing on for literal  _ years _ , Keith dissolves into a fit of giggles. Shoulders shaking, he covers his face with his hands, “What. the fuck. Lance. Really?” 

 

Lance grins down at him. “I think he’s gone.” He winks. “You may resume.” And then he seems to realize what he’s said because his mouth kind of puckers and he looks a bit panicked and a bit pink, and he squeaks out, “If you, uh, want, I mean.” 

 

Keith catches one of his flailing hands and kisses into the palm. Lance is a lot more to him than just a pair of very pretty legs. He sets Lance’s hand on his back. “I want,” he confirms, lust coloring his voice deeper than usual. 

 

Lance swallows. 

 

Keith takes him into his mouth. 

 

The world narrows to the taste and weight and smell of him. Keith watches as Lance’s mouth drops open as he sucks, dragging his tongue along the underside of Lance’s cock, one hand wrapped around the base. 

 

He expected Lance to be loud---babble or swear, shout his name, anything to be dramatic---but he’s not like that at all. For a moment, the only sounds are just the wheeze of the ancient bathroom fan and the indecent slick sound of Keith’s mouth. He takes Lance deeper, enjoying the way his thighs tense in response. 

 

And then Lance does sound off, but it’s quiet. “Ahn,” he moans, barely audible. “Ah---” 

 

Keith laps up the side of his cock, eyes flicking upward to watch Lance’s reaction. He reaches down to stroke himself, mouth pressed into Lance’s dark hair. 

 

Lance’s eyes are squeezed shut. They flutter as he inhales while Keith strokes him, tonguing at the slit. Lance’s mouth works at nothing, soft sounds caught as he bites his lower lip. 

 

Lance’s hand is still on Keith’s back, resting heavy and hot on his shoulder. He presses Keith closer to him, unconsciously begging for Keith to take him deeper. Keith complies. Lance’s hand moves, running up from Keith’s back over his neck, towards his scalp; as it passes over his ear, Keith can feel his fingers trembling.  

 

Keith takes him fully in his mouth, sinking him throat deep. Lance’s nails scrape over Keith’s scalp in response; his fingers twitching as he comes undone, loosening the hair out of Keith’s ponytail. He makes the noises to match: breathy, light moans that send heat thrumming through Keith’s body. 

 

Keith palms at his own leaking cock, uncoordinated, but still so, so close. He wants to sear this image into his mind forever: Lance’s head is thrown back, erotic, the long line of his neck exposed. Lance’s hips stutter forward, fucking into Keith’s mouth. His body tenses, draws back, just barely managing to gasp Keith’s name in warning. And then, Keith has him pinned against the door by his hips, sucking him off as he comes. 

 

He goes slack for a moment, hands relaxing in Keith’s hair, but Keith catches him smile. That same playful grin crosses his face, just before Lance hooks his leg around Keith’s shoulder, pressing his thighs close, one heel kneading into his back. And that’s all it takes for Keith. He groans, coming into his hand so hard he sees white. 

 

Keith stays like that for a minute, breathing hard against Lance. Lance’s leg drops back down to the floor and he shifts, helping Keith up to a standing position. Keith is barely upright before Lance slumps against him, holding him tight. 

 

It’s somehow intimate and grounding, this wordless reponse. Keith encircles his waist, bringing him closer, his heart beating erratic in his chest. A minute passes. Two. Lance mumbles something into his neck, but it’s too muffled for Keith to understand.  

 

“Huh?” Keith asks, drawing back to look at his face. 

 

A little too short to be at eye-level any longer, Lance looks up into his face, something raw and unconcealed in his expression. It makes Keith want to gather him tighter and never let go. He settles for crossing his arms. 

 

Lance smooths down one of Keith’s brows with his pointer finger. “Messed up your hair,” he comments, although Keith is certain that’s not what he said before. Lance purses his lips and raises his brows, pauses a beat, before he decides to say: “Worth it though.” 

 

Keith raises an eyebrow in return, forcing his face to stay blank. “Yeah?” 

 

Nodding, Lance screws up his mouth and narrows his eyes as if in thought. He ventures, “Prooobably the best day of my life?” 

 

“Cool.” 

 

“Cool!” Lance throws up his arms. He shakes his head, then starts redoing the buttons on his shirt and fluffing his own disheveled hair in the bathroom’s mirror. “‘Cool,’ he says!” Lance exclaims to no one. 

 

Keith wouldn’t trade this exchange for anything in any galaxy. Nothing. He shuffles Lance around the tiny bathroom, reaching across him to unlock the door. “Sunglasses?” he asks. 

 

“Oh yeah!” Lance exclaims with an expression like,  _ I knew I forgot something. _ “I guess if  _ someone _ is actually going to help me decide this time!” 

 

“I make no promises,” Keith warns, following him back out into the aisles. He pretends to miss the dirty look that Lance shoots at him in response. 

 

Lance ends up buying the mirrored aviators. Possibly just because Keith said he shouldn’t. Keith kind of doesn’t hate them. 

 

***

 


End file.
